


ad astra

by amelioratedays



Category: TVB - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelioratedays/pseuds/amelioratedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ron is a self-deprecating mess and he doesn't want others to know--especially Raymond who depends on himself as much as he does on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Super inconsistent updates and super short chapters.

 

The stars overturn and the earth flips inside-out. The sun fades into the vast midnight. (daylight's dying). Ron peers at the sky outside his window, seeing nothing but black—no moon, no clouds, no stars; an empty /nothing/. And he wonders, just how long has he lived in this midnight gloom. Only for a moment though, before he reminds himself to stop thinking and resume his habitual lifestyle. Shadows dancing among the dead, Ron figures he doesn't really mind the darkness.

The light has never stayed on him for long anyways.


	2. inebriated

Raymond lives in a world of light, be it the ones on stage, on set, or simply the constant flicker of camera shutters. Even when the lights overhead are turned off, the concert venue is still illuminated by the thousands in the audience. An ocean of stars too bright for him to see clearly. Nebulae descending to earth, he thinks to himself—whispers at the corner of his heart. He /doesn't/ want to leave. Not then, not now, and not ever. All the world's a stage and he feels himself being torn between personal freedom and dreams, desires, and passion.

 

Smile painted on his face, he listens to them converse.

"Harder work brings better results", they say.

"Of course you can handle it", they say.

"It's never enough", they say.

(You're our marionette.)

 

Tugging at the invisible strings wrapping his limbs, Raymond finds himself painting another smile over the already deteriorating layer underneath.

 

He can only afford to be himself sometimes, facade torn and deracinated as he crumbles to pieces in Ron's arms. There's alcohol flowing through his veins, frustration flooding his chest and he complains, inebriated murmurs of injustice, standards, and prejudice. He doesn't get it; he's human too—full of flaws, limitations, and restrictions. Ron doesn't speak, simply tugging at the can resting in between the other's hands. He mutters under his breath, the night air enveloping his words and bringing them away from mortal ears. "At the very least, they have expectations for you".

 

 _Saccharomyces cerevisia_ e seeping into his capillaries, the walls cave in. Stern looks gazing upon himself; they reprimand. "You're the one who fell into this state".

And Ron suddenly remembers, shards of shattered memories digging into his skin;

 

He's the one who gave up first.


	3. suffocation

Ron doesn't live up to expectations—or rather, he doesn't have expectations to live up to. There's no burning passion to motivate him; he doesn't strive for the top—stepping on the corpses of others. He simply plunges into the ocean, trying to stay afloat until the waves tug him in and he sinks to the endless bottom.

 

He's not made for the industry. Years of being a dancer having taught him to stay in the background, out of the spotlight—leaves to adorn the blooming rose. And leaves that don't embellish the flower are simply removed.

 

Ron finds himself to be a moon; having no light of its own and only reflecting off that of the sun. "I'm not like you", he whispers in the crook of the slightly younger's neck. He feels like a shadow at times, dissipating when he tries to hard to linger in the light. Tightening his arms around the other, the walls' frowns deepen, he continues; "You're too good, and I'm too lacking."

 

The stars flicker overhead, and Ron feels himself dimming. The arm on his waist pulls him closer, as the other whispers half-asleep into his ear; "Well, don't opposites attract?"

 

Eyes closing, Ron watches the room ceiling fade into obsidian emptiness.

Blood vessels constricting, invisible hands encircle his neck until he can't breathe.


	4. necrosis

Broken glass against warm flesh, poison in his blood. The light's are off—as they always have been—and the curtains drawn close. Crimson tainted the floor—spreading blossoms of vermilion upon the white carpet background. Ron's watching stars blink out one by one.

 

If stars were brightest before they died, then, Ron isn't sure that he has ever lived.


	5. existent

Black blends into white and Ron finds himself staring at a foreign ceiling. There's pain in his chest, dark shadows enveloping his cor humanum too tight for it to pulsate, too long for the cardiac muscle to breathe. There's bandages around his wrist, layers of white gauze over wounds and scars and he wonders why he isn't alive, isn't dead, but still existent.

 

Raymond's looking at him with furrowed brows and dark shadows that drag down his cheeks. Ron laughs; "You look like you should be lying here too." The other doesn't laugh, and the creases between his brows deepen as he reaches towards the slightly older one's hand. "I'm okay", Ron reassures but the creases don't disappear and for a moment Ron thinks of his scars--for those won't disappear either.

 

"You're not convincing", Raymond mutters

 

"I beg to differ", Ron retorts, fumbling with the bandages on his wrist, tugging at the hypodermic needle in his arm. Raymond stops him, pulls his hand away and doesn't let go. His hands are warm, not cold like Ron's, mild heat passing through veins, arteries, and capillaries. Ron feels like snow, melting against the sun and disintegrating into thin air. "You're too bright", he mumbles; "too warm". Raymond tugs him closer, putting his arms around the other's frame.

 

"Perhaps, it's because you're too benighted; too algid."

 

Ron doesn't reply, drumming his fingers lightly on the other's skin--tapping out ancient hymns in Morse code. Raymond continued, whispering in a tone that resembles the spring wind; "If I were the sun, you can be my moon. You can have my light, and I'll embrace your shadows." Ron tilted his head, eyes meeting with the other's--kohl black orbs reflecting in one another.

 

"When the sun implodes, then what shall the moon do?"

 

"That isn't until 5 billion years later, you know?"

 

"That's when it burns out--but what if it implodes before?"

 

Raymond laughed, "Then the stars can fall into the ocean."

 

"But the moon--"

 

"The moon will still be there, whether in darkness or light--the moon will still be there."

 

It's almost about a millionth of an eternity until the silence breaks, a thoughtful hum of agreement as Ron leans back into Raymond's embrace. There are scars on his wrist and bruises upon his heart, but at this moment, Ron doesn't think he cares at all.


	6. lies

Raymond visits him everyday without fail. Sometimes at the stroke of midnight after jam packed schedules. Sometimes at ungodly hours of the day after endless concert rehearsals. Sometimes at the magic moment right before the sun rises. The shadows under his eyes darken and Ron doesn't bear to tell him that he ends ups regurgitating all the food he brings anyways. So he simply swallows the porridge that the younger spoons out for him, breath shortening as he feels the upheaval of hydrochloric acid in his stomach.

 

"You don't have to come every day, you know."

 

"I'm worried about you."

 

"You don't have to be. I'm fine."

 

Except he isn't, but he swallows down the lie and hopes the porridge from before burns it to death. He forgets though, that the lies and porridge will all come back up in time. But perhaps, before then, the second hand will freeze and time will stop.

 

Holding the other's hand, Ron speaks; "I want to go home."

 

"Raymond answers a beat later, helping to prop the pillow up, "The doctor said you needed rest."

 

"I can rest at home."

 

"There's no one to take care of you at home."

 

"I can take care of myself, you know", sighed Ron.

 

"If you could, you wouldn't be here, you know", Raymond stated, copying Ron's tone of voice.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"You're not."

 

"Stop it."

 

"You stop it."

 

Ron cracks a smile, lifting his hand to poke at the other's forehead. "No, you." Raymond smiles back, wrapping his arms around Ron's neck and leaning in to meet the other's lips. He hovers for a moment before, whispering under his breath.

 

"No, you."

 

And when warmth embraces his lips, Ron feels the lies in his stomach burn.


	7. stars

Shakespeare once said,

 

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,..."

 

So when Ron finds himself an actor both on and off camera, he figures that if life was merely an extended soap opera then lies are simply lines off an unknown script. But Raymond doesn't, and when the slightly younger finds hidden bottles of neglected medicine, all sealed and unopened, alongside almost empty bottles of sleeping pills--he breaks.

 

 

 

Raymond holds him, too tight, too tight and whispers into his tears, "You're all I have." His voice all shaky and unstable, as if the one dying was him and not Ron. The eternal storm clouds above Ron's heart thunder and cold rain pours over his warm blood; he doesn't answer. Raymond doesn't let go, muttering into his ear fragments of, "Why can't you love yourself more?" and "I can't live without you."

 

Ron turns to face the other, finally breaking his overdue term of silence;

 

"When people die, they turn into stars."

 

The tears don't stop and Ron doesn't understand why. Raymond's whispering in his ear again, incessant murmurs of "no" resounding between his eardrums. He tries to wipe off the tears that continue to flow, and he repeats himself, placing his hands on the other's cheeks while he looks into Raymond's eyes; "I can finally be your star."

 

He continued; "I can look over you and protect you and guide you through the midnight gloom." There's hope in his voice but Raymond only shakes his head, pulls him closer and embraces him all over again. Ron's voice finally breaks, "Stars don't have to care about other people, don't have worries, don't have to abide to society and laws."

 

The ceiling caves in, and Raymond finally understands.


	8. names

Raymond has two names[1], one that he was given at birth and another which gave himself. Ron has two names too[2], one that he was given at birth and another which he was given after when he almost slipped through the gates of the _Naihe_ Bridge[3]. Ron doesn’t speak of it, and Raymond doesn’t seem to bring himself to ask.

 

It doesn’t stop him from prying; however, pretending to skim through magazines out of boredom; eyes focused on the articles that describe the incident as a tragedy. He doesn’t think of it as a tragedy much, more of a miracle.

 

And when the sun dims and the clouds fade, Raymond pulls Ron even closer, hovering his fingers over the scar on his forehead. His hand lowers to feel the uneven lines on the other’s wrist.

 

“Hell won’t take you away from me. I won’t let them.”, He whispers, soft and languid. Ron smiles in his sleep, burying his head into Raymond’s shirt, fingers tugging at the soft nylon. Raymond smiles too, tugging back at the other’s shirt.

 

“I won’t leave you. They can’t force me to.”

 

[1] Raymond’s birth name is 林匯文 (Lam Wui Man), and was later changed to 林逸峯 (Lam Yat Fung); hence the stage name 林峯 (Lam Fung).

[2] Ron’s birth name was吳兆棠 (Ng Siu Tong); however, after a car accident during his childhood where he was one of the only two survivors, his name was changed to吳卓羲 (Ng Cheuk Hei).

[3] Literally translated to the Bridge of Helplessness, it is similar to the River Styx in Greek mythology, being a bridge which all souls have to cross before entering the underworld.


	9. secrets

Work starts at 0600, no delays, unlike other days where he stumbles in half awake, half early—half late. Late because it’s 0630, early because the staff aren’t done setting up anyways. But the press don’t care if you’re technically early and Ron shakes off the thoughts of another article exclaiming how tardy and unprofessional he is. Raymond’s filming in the studio next door and he doesn’t understand why he’s willing to sit for an hour before they actually start at 0700.

 

He’s running through his lines as he taps out Morse code on his phone. Kate gives him a discerning look and he stops midway, message half-written, he stuffs his phone in his pocket.

 

Lights, camera, action and Ron utters his lines to Kate in exasperation. There’s little NGs today and he sees the director crack a smile when he calls for break.  He sits back on the set’s sofa and is still tapping hidden messages when Kate pops up next to him, curious eyes peering not so subtly at his phone.

 

“Girlfriend?” She asks—mind skimming through magazine covers of Mr. Ng and Miss Koon. Ron shakes his head, “Since when have you been so nosy?” Kate frowns, retaliating in physical violence.

 

They’re still in the middle of bickering when Raymond walks into set, soft smiles and tussled hair. He’s done for the day and Ron slightly frowns at the thought. Raymond doesn’t fail to notice dissatisfaction when he settles on the empty sofa seat. There’s a chuckle in the other’s voice as he asks;

 

“You ready to go?”

 

“No, there’s still more stuff to film.” He replies, still upset on the idea that they were both main leads yet the other’s schedule today was noticeably empty in comparison.

 

“Let’s go on a date,” he leans in to whispers and Ron nudges Kate off his other shoulder. The latter clings on and he attempts to flick her off again. She frowns, “Ah Gor, Ron’s keeping secrets.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You know, about Miss Koon?”

 

It’s a matter of milliseconds when Raymond is laughing again, eyes twinkling as he pulls Ron off the sofa and towards the door. Ron’s fumbling across camera wires when the other announces, “We’re going on a lunch break.” Kate sits back on the leather sofa, still frowning.

 

Ron doesn’t understand.

He should be the one frowning—Raymond’s the one keeping secrets.


End file.
